


Found

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Series: Lost & Found [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8347171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: The sequel to 'Lost'.Danger waits in the swamps of Georgia.Eager to return to the hunt, Dean struggles to hide some after effects of his head injury as they are drawn ever deeper into a dark and deadly hell on earth.Dean's lips tightened. "Don't mother-hen me. Couple of scans, bit of training and I'm back at the front line dude."





	1. Chapter 1

 

Dean opened his eyes just once before he was swept away from Sam's side. They had already unloaded him from the helicopter, were settling him on the gurney, when his fingers twitched in his brother's grasp.

Sam's head turned quickly. The stretcher lay in a warm patch of sun between the dark shadows of the helicopter and the hospital buildings. The sunlight seemed to pool in the green eyes fixed on his own, highlighting the golden flecks suspended in their endless depths. Dean's gaze was full of recognition and warmth, a look rarely bestowed on anyone but his little brother.

Sam smiled at him, tightening his grip on the cold fingers. "Hey..." he said softly. "I'm here. I'm gonna be right here, all the time, okay?"

A little crinkle appeared at the corner of Dean's eyes, the smile hidden beneath the oxygen mask. Their gazes locked for a couple of seconds, then his brother winked, a lazy, cheeky little flick that was so very Dean. The crinkles smoothed, the eyelids slid shut and he was gone again, slipping back into unconsciousness.

Minutes later he was wheeled away at speed, heading for emergency surgery. Sam jogged after him until he was turned aside at a set of double doors, told where to wait and given a sheaf of forms to complete. He flopped on the nearest chair, knees suddenly like jelly.

"Just breathe," he told himself. "Breathe, get yourself together, fill in the goddamn paperwork and then wait. That's what you do, wait. Every time. Wait, 'cos there's nothing else you can do."

.

The first few hours slipped by until Sam found himself slumped on a hard chair next to his brother's bed. His mind was buzzing… a subdural haemotoma, quietly bleeding away in Dean's head since the car accident, had so nearly taken his brother away from him.

Dean was silent, pale, heavily sedated. The only evidence of the hole drilled in his skull was the white dressing above his hairline. It would be a while before he had enough hair to spike in his favored style.

The haemotoma had been drained successfully, according to the surgeon. Sam was left, fiercely clutching pamphlets on traumatic brain injury, after effects, side effects, ct scans, MRI scans. He was exhausted, unable to process anything further, just grateful in a numb sort of way that they actually had valid insurance cards for once. At the time, his impulse purchase after a rare paid job had not gone down well with his brother, but right now they were worth ten times their weight in gold.

.

Predictably, after hours of keeping watch, Sam had fallen asleep by the time Dean awoke. The first thing he focussed on properly was his little brother's shaggy mop of brown hair, resting like a scruffy, sleeping animal on the covers by his arm. He smiled a little, fondly. He felt loopy with meds, but actually better than he had for a while.

Everything was back in place in his memories, the ones from his time of amnesia strangely detached, as though they belonged to a stranger. Sam, poor dude, he thought, getting a clear memory of his brother's look of disbelief as Dean pointed a gun at him.

He went to reach out, wanting to ruffle the mop of hair, but found his hand was trapped, wrapped around by long warm fingers. Oddly the last thing he remembered was Sam holding his hand on the stretcher under the whumping noise of the helicopter's slowing vanes. He wondered if he'd let go at all since that time, well apart from when he'd been in surgery. The various attached IVs and monitors, combined with a numb feeling in his skull, suggested something invasive had occurred. The meds must be good, he thought, feeling only a hint of a headache. He considered wriggling his hand out of Sam's grasp, but found he didn't want to let go of the anchor holding him to reality just as surely as Jess had anchored him in his failing body.

.

He must have fallen asleep shortly afterwards, waking for a second time to a view of Sam's big, hazel eyes staring at him from a tired face wrinkled with worry and relief. I gotta take care of Sam more, he thought sleepily, at this rate he's gonna worry himself to death.

"Hey…" Sam smiled at him. "You're back."

Dean smirked at him; he could feel the steady thump of the pulse in his brother's wrist against the back of his thumb. "Dude, you gonna let go?" He wriggled his fingers a little, still smiling. Sam looked flustered, almost embarrassed, pulling his hand away and flexing the fingers as though they had gone numb.

"Dean," he said, voice hoarse. "Are you okay, you er… know who I am and everything?"

"Course I know you man, you're my pain in the ass little brother." Sam's eyes filled with tears. Dean reached out and grasped his arm. "Buddy, hey, come on, I'm okay. It's all gonna be okay."

Sam shook his head soundlessly, dashed at his eyes. "You died. You died…" His voice was broken.

"Well I'm not dead now." He patted Sam's arm, wishing he could sit up and give him a hug. "Jess saved me dude. I'm not gonna go die after that." He found to his surprise that he was actually determined not to die, as though it would be kind of rude.

Sam rubbed his eyes again, gave him a watery smile, enough of a smile to at least show some teeth; a good sign, Dean decided.

He relaxed into his pillow, feeling suddenly exhausted. It must have shown on his face because Sam was there immediately, straightening his pillows, tweaking the sheet.

"I'm okay, Sam, really." His voice was gentle, reassuring. "I'm just tired and kinda doped up y'know. We'll be out of here soon and everything'll be okay."

Sam nodded. "You're gonna have to take it easy for a while. We'll go to stay with Bobby for a few weeks, huh?"

"Sure…" Dean's eyes were drooping. He'd agree to anything right now to stop that worried look coming back to Sam's face. "I'll take it easy. Be good to see Bobby anyhow." He yawned.

"Hey." Sam was holding out a glass and a straw. "Have some fluid before you go to sleep." Dean took a few sips, then a few more.

"Thanks Sammy," he whispered sleepily, wondering what he'd do without his little brother.

"You're tired Dean, get some rest." Sam's voice was soft.

"You too dude, you're looking kinda crinkly there."

Sam smirked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Crinkly huh? You should know, being older and all that."

Dean huffed, eyes half shut. Sleep was pulling him down. He yawned again, almost gone, his words blurred with sleep. "Hey, Sam?"

"What?" Sam was leaning over him attentively.

"It was nice. Made me feel safe y'know." It was just a whisper, he wasn't even sure it was audible and he could always blame it on the meds.

Sam was frowning at him, puzzled. Too sleepy to say anything else, Dean waggled his fingers a little, felt them caught in a warm strong grip and fell asleep, smiling as Sam's face split in a grin.

.


	2. Chapter 2

"I felt it happen y'know." The statement came without warning; Dean's gaze was fixed on the bed covers as his fingers traced an aimless pattern across the material.

Sam froze, listening intently. In the days since the surgery his brother's behaviour had been reasonably normal, aside perhaps from an uncharacteristic lack of protest about being looked after and medical care in general. As yet, he'd failed to talk in detail about any of the events leading up to his arrival in hospital.

"Felt what happen?" he encouraged gently. Dean flicked a glance at him, looked away again.

"When I hit the wall, it hurt like crap…" He gestured at his head. "Worse than before. Then the pain just kinda went away. I had this feeling of pressure; I knew something bad had gone down. But suddenly I could remember; I looked up and you were there and I was so happy man." A little smile, fading quickly. "Then my face goes numb and there's this noise... and everything just stops, like someone threw a switch… and I was stood by Jess…" He ground to a halt, mouth tight, took a couple of shaky breaths. "I'd be dead if it wasn't for her."

Sam put a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. His brother was clearly upset and he struggled for the right words to comfort him. How do you tell someone it's okay that their little brother's dead girlfriend saved their life, while that same brother was doing CPR on their body?

It seemed it wasn't the issue anyway. Dean was staring at him, eyes full of guilt.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that Sam. I should've got help sooner, I knew something was off."

"Hey…" Sam's protest was cut off.

"No. I gotta say this. I nearly shot you Sam, nearly shot my own brother." Dean's face was tortured. "I'll never forgive myself. How could I forget you?"

"Are you kidding me!" Sam's was incredulous. "Do _not_ do that! Do not sit there and try and take the blame for things that happened when you couldn't even remember who you were!"

He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "You were just defending yourself, the way Dad trained us! None of this was your fault. It was an accident, Dean, an accident! They happen all the time to people and this time it was you. It is not your fault!"

His brother stared at him, misery on his face. "But I should've remembered you."

"No. No, you shouldn't. That's not the way it works." He paused, remembering Dean wiping snot off his face in the yard, throwing him into the motel room when skeletal man attacked. "And you know what? Even when you didn't remember, you were still taking care of me, even then. You never forgot how to do that."

He looked earnestly at Dean, wanting desperately to wipe the worried, apologetic look off his face. Truth was, he would never forget the chill he'd felt at the expression in his brother's eyes as he looked at him down the barrel of that gun. But in the larger scheme of things, it was of minor importance. He was more hurt that Dean excluded him from the hunt in the first place. Although he understood his brother was trying to protect him, it still hurt, the way he'd taken that decision and just left. But now was not the time to raise that question; it'd wait until Dean was less fragile, however long that turned out to be.

.

Dean tilted his head back, soaking up the warmth of the sun spilling in through the open door of the Impala. He was sprawled comfortably in the driver's seat listening to music. Driving was out of the question for a while, but the Impala was home and even if she was just parked outside the motel, he was still happier there than anywhere else.

He was drowsy; he'd been tired a lot since the surgery, but it was a good tired, not the pained exhaustion of before. He let his eyelids droop, the sunlight a golden glow through the dark filter of his lashes. He wondered vaguely if he'd always been tired, one way or another, ever since that night in Lawrence when his four year old self had been ripped from a life of fluffy blankets and toys and catapulted into an existence on the run. An endless succession of motel rooms, rented apartments and sleeping in the car. Even now, post-surgery, they were moving on soon. They'd spent the first week after his discharge from hospital back at the motel, being pampered by Sheryl and finally having the opportunity to thank Bill properly. Tomorrow or the day after, they were heading out to Bobby's for a while. Then, once the all-important scans were completed, they'd be back to normal, back to hunting. He couldn't wait. He smiled a little, accepting easily the fact that his favorite place was by its very nature something designed to be on the road.

All things considered he was lucky to be alive. The doctors had been more than impressed with how quickly he was recovering physically. By the time they'd operated, the brain bleed had stopped. They were putting it down to him dying and the blood clotting before he was resuscitated, but Dean knew differently. He remembered the panic he'd felt trying to hold his spirit inside his unresponsive body as it repelled him as though they were magnets of opposite polarity. Jess's presence had been like an injection of ice cold power. The flow of energy from her freezing fingers as they twisted inside his skull had healed something, enough that suddenly he could breathe by himself again, his spirit slotting back into its home as securely as a hand inside a well-fitting glove. He wasn't sure what she'd done, but he was sure he'd be dead without her assistance.

It'd be a while before he was fully recovered and Sam was clearly determined his older brother would take as much time for that recovery as necessary. For once, Dean wasn't arguing, yet. He was looking forward to getting back to hunting, but he'd scared himself enough to find an unexpected supply of patience, at least for now. Besides, only an asshole would put Sam through any more stress.

He was under Sam's 'not too much music, no TV, let your brain recover' rules. His little brother seemed to be permanently attached to a wad of literature, a large portion of the information underscored heavily in red pen. So far, Dean was following orders, too sleepy to stage a protest… so far. Sitting in the Impala, away from the endless cautionary instructions, with music playing, felt like a treat, and he smirked a little, stroking the wheel appreciatively with his fingertips. "Soon, Baby," he murmured sleepily.

"I interruptin' somethin' here?" Dean's eyes shot open, head swinging towards the familiar gruff voice. Bobby Singer was stood by the open door, laughing at him. "You and that car kid, it ain't natural."

"Bobby!" He swung his legs out, stood up smoothly, pleased to note there was no hint of vertigo. "Hey man! What y'doin' here?" He stepped into Bobby's one-armed hug, avoiding the lumpy package under his other arm.

Bobby gave him a hug, a slap on the back, bristling a little the way he did when he was trying not to show any emotion.

"Figured I might as well escort you idjits back to my place, save you getting' into any more scrapes. Anyhow… I got a Camaro to fix." He waggled the package a little. "Can't leave a job half done."

"Sam knew you were comin'?"

"Might a mentioned somethin'. Now don't be lookin' at me like that. I been talkin' things over with Bill since you got took to hospital. I wanted to come fix the Camaro, kinda expressin' my appreciation for what he's done for you boys."

Dean grinned at him. "It's real good to see you, old man."

Bobby huffed at him and led the way into the motel.

.

Dean raised a hand in farewell as they pulled out three days later. Bill grinned at him from his position slouched up against the repaired Camaro. He wondered if they'd ever meet the old man again, thought it would be kind of cool to have a grandfather like that.

They travelled in silence for a while. He could feel Sam looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He was impressed with Dean's physical recovery, although not as surprised as the doctors. That didn't stop him from being on high alert for psychological damage and he watched his brother like a hawk. It was starting to wear on Dean's nerves but he bit back the instinctive sharp retort.

"Watch the road dude," he said mildly. "I'm okay. Be good to get to Bobby's, start getting back to normal."

Sam snorted, his expression making clear his opinion of his brother's 'normal'.

"So, what you been talking over with Bobby?"

"Case, nothing you need to worry about."

Dean's lips tightened. "Don't mother-hen me. Couple of scans, bit of training and I'm back at the front line dude."

The bitch-face appeared immediately. Dean glared back. Maybe it was time to make a stand.


	3. Chapter 3

"You with us?" Bobby's gruff voice broke into his thoughts and Dean lifted his head, realising he had been staring at the same page for quite some time. The old hunter, eyes narrowed, was looking at him from under the peak of his baseball cap. Sam raised his shaggy head, disturbed from his intent study of the pile of books on the dusty desk.

"If this is borin' ya, go and do somethin' useful. That old M16 of mine could do with a strip down and clean. Y'know where it's at."

Feeling somehow caught out, Dean made his escape from under the scrutiny of two pairs of eyes and settled at the kitchen table with a feeling of relief. He'd never been one to enjoy research, but lately he was finding it hard to concentrate for any length of time. Another enjoyable after effect of brain trauma according to Sam's pamphlets.

He stripped the M16 methodically, laying the parts on a cloth on the kitchen table. There was a comfort in handling the old weapon; it'd been at Bobby's for as long as he could recall and he'd stripped, cleaned and reassembled it more times than he could remember. It was one of the many 'just in case' weapons Bobby had stashed away in his armory. John had given it to him, back in the far off days when they had actually been something approaching friendly. Cleaning it always soothed Dean, made him feel closer to his father.

Thirty minutes later he was feeling far from soothed. The cleaned parts lay in a row on the cloth in front of him, the light sheen of oil reflecting the light from the dim bulb. He swallowed nervously. _Crap_ , he thought, _give it a minute, keep calm. Crap!_

The boards in the hallway creaked, giving him just enough warning to pick up the bolt carrier and wipe it diligently. Sam popped his head inside the kitchen. "You okay there?"

Dean smirked at him, playing it cool. He pushed his chair back from the table, gestured at the array of parts. "Well c'mon then Sammy, let's see how fast you can put it back together." He got up, stepped back, watching intently as Sam rose to the challenge and started rapidly reassembling the weapon.

"Not bad," he allowed grudgingly, taking it off him and heading casually for the armory. In the privacy of its quiet, cool walls he slotted the M16 back into its rack and dropped his forehead against the cold metal, his knuckles white on the racking. "Shit," he whispered to himself. If Sam hadn't reassembled the weapon it would still be sitting in parts on the kitchen table; between one blink and the next it had changed from the easily recognisable parts of a familiar piece of equipment into an incomprehensible array of pieces of metal.

 _I'm kinda tired, that's all,_ he told himself, knowing it was a lie. _Sam's sorted it, so I'll keep my mouth shut. I can look up that stuff on the Internet, re-learn it. How hard can it be? I'll remember later anyhow._

He fingered the leaflet in his back pocket. There was no need to open the worn folds; he'd read the contents so many times they were committed to memory. ' _Difficulty_ _concentrating' -_ check _. 'Disturbed sleep patterns' -_ check _. 'Volatile emotions' –_ check _._ Now _'temporary inability to remember basic and previously familiar procedures' –_ check _,_ fucking check _._ He wondered if the friggin' leaflet was cursed. Maybe he should take it outside and salt'n'burn it.

Even with the follow-up scans safely out of the way and with some serious fitness training under his belt, it'd been an uphill struggle to hide his problems with concentration and sleeping and convince his brother and Bobby he was well enough to hunt. He wasn't planning on jeopardising their wary acceptance of his full recovery anytime soon, not with the research almost complete and departure for the swamps of southern Georgia imminent.

Dean headed casually back to join the others, stepping carefully over the piles of books, scrolls and parchment littered liberally around the room. They'd spent the weeks of his 'recovery' researching every possible variety of supernatural swamp dweller to assist Bobby's long-time hunter friends, Jake and Verne, who were currently embroiled in a hunt down in the swamps.

The sad truth was, after weeks of research, they were no closer to pinning down the likely culprit. There was not even any real, solid evidence to suggest this was definitely a case of supernatural disappearances. A rogue, killer alligator may even be responsible and it'd seemed the job was drawing to a close when Bobby received a rushed call late one night to say Jake was onto something. That was three days ago. They'd heard nothing since.

Bobby was on the phone again. He flipped it shut. "Balls!"

"Still nothing?" Sam stretched, yawning. "Guess we're heading out in the morning then?" He flicked a worried glance at Dean. "You sure you're up to this?"

"Dude! You ask me that one more time and so help me, I will kick your ass!" Dean glared at him, grinding his teeth as he fought down his instinct to start swinging punches. He pointed angrily at Sam's bed-hair and the dark shadows under his eyes, at Bobby's tired face. "You're the ones look like crap on toast."

He felt guilty even as he said it, well aware that at least part of the reason they looked so worn was the worry his head injury had caused. This was no time to back off though; he stared them both down, the challenge clear in his green eyes. For once there was no argument. He backed out of the room, too angry to remain but aware he was being unreasonable. "Goin' for a run," he muttered, heading out of the house and pounding up the road before he completely lost his cool and blew weeks of pretence.

.

"Bobby?" Sam's face was creased with worry.

"Don't reckon we're gonna be able to stop him. We get down there and he ain't handlin' it, we'll shut him down. No good leavin' him here. He's like to just take off. Least we can keep an eye on the idjit."

"He's hiding something. I know it."

Bobby squinted at him, incredulity coloring his tone. "Course he's hidin' somethin'. This is Dean we're talkin' about! Idjit never did know what was good for him."

Sam sighed. It was the truth. "I swear Bobby, one thing, just one thing and I'll tranquilise him if I have to, he can't take another injury right now."

"You know it, I know it. Try tellin' it to that stupid son of a bitch." Bobby shoved his baseball cap back. "We'll get a coupla hours shut-eye, get on the road. Mebbe we can find somethin' in that cabin the boys've been stayin' in."

.

Sam was in bed by the time his brother got back. He heard the shower running and then the soft noises of him heading into bed, trying not to disturb his little brother on the other side of the room. Sam guessed Dean knew he wasn't asleep. Years of sleeping in the same room had made it nearly impossible to pretend to be asleep without the other one realising. In any event, Dean didn't call him on it.

Sam lay quietly, unhappy at the thought of exposing his brother to more danger so soon after nearly losing him, again. He waited until Dean's breaths slowed and deepened before allowing himself to drift off, knowing it wouldn't be long before Dean started shuffling. He'd hadn't told his brother that he was only too aware he spent most of the night-time hours sleeping fitfully or not at all. Trying to talk about it would only make Dean work harder at concealing things from them.

.

They were up, had sucked down some coffee and were ready for the road by first light. Dean threw a couple of extra weapons in the trunk, borrowed from Bobby's armory.

"What?" He slammed the Impala door with its customary squawk, staring at Sam's raised eyebrow.

"Nothing. You're kinda well-armed dude."

"Yeah Sammy, that's cause there are lotsa things down there that can eat ya, 'fore we even start on the supernatural crap."

"Well," Sam nodded wisely, "…there is a high percentage of potential threats for the unwary, alligators, bears, snakes and of course Utricularia subulata and Pinguicula caerulea abound, although of course they won't be a threat to us."

"Utricky… what!" Dean stared at him.

"Carnivorous plants, Dean." Sam spoke airily. "They only hunt bugs though."

"Don't go all geek boy on me Sammy! Meat eating plants, awesome." Dean looked disgusted. "One of them sonsabitches tries to feed off me, I'm gonna ice 'em."

"It may be a little difficult to find ice in a swamp, Dean." Sam's tone was mild.

Dean glared at him, turned ACDC up to full ear crushing volume and peeled out after Bobby's battered vehicle


	4. Chapter 4

Dean swung the Impala around the last puddle in the track and parked her next to Bobby's car. The hunters' cabin lay in front of them, its wooden walls bleached grey with age, the tatty remains of peeling white paint showing between the festoons of Spanish moss hanging from the rafters and porch railings. Things grew rapidly in the warm and humid atmosphere of the swamp, but even so the cabin looked dilapidated, weeds pressing up tight against the walls and taking root in the shingles.

From where they were parked they could see the back end of the cabin extended straight out into a covered dock, made out of the same grey bleached wood and supported by wooden posts sinking down into the black water. A partly submerged metal boat was still attached to the dock with a frayed rope.

Behind them the track disappeared into the gloom of the overhanging trees. There was no sign of the hunters' truck, although tire tracks in the damp earth suggested there had been a vehicle there recently.

It would've been impossible for anyone in the cabin to have missed the sound of Bobby's car rattling and squeaking up the track and the Impala was not exactly a stealthy vehicle. Even ticking over, the heavy rumble of her engine filled the small clearing and rolled away across the dark waters of the swamp beyond the cabin. It didn't seem as though anyone was home.

The air conditioning in the Impala had decided to work fitfully, for a change, so the heat hit them as Dean turned off the engine and they threw open the doors. Heavy, moist air pressed down on them and within seconds Dean felt sweat bead on his forehead, his t-shirt sticking to his back as moisture ran down his spine and soaked into the waistband of his jeans.

They approached the cabin slowly, their eyes scanning over the windows and across the undergrowth surrounding the building. By the time they reached the porch steps even Dean's ears were sweating.

Nothing was moving, so Bobby climbed the steps and rapped at the peeling doorframe next to the screen door. Dean followed slowly, the sound of his boots hollow on the old boards.

"Don't look like they're here." Bobby pulled the screen door open with a squawk of rusty hinges. The main door was open slightly; he pushed it with the barrel of his shotgun and it swung slowly inwards, revealing the dark interior of the cabin. "Hey! Anyone home?" he hollered, his voice unexpectedly loud in the damp air. A startled bird screeched in the trees behind them, flapping noisily away. Sam let out his breath with a hiss; he realised he'd been holding it, half expecting something to happen.

Bobby moved slowly on into the cabin, Dean following close behind and Sam covering their rear, swinging his shotgun across the dank green undergrowth as he climbed the steps.

"They ain't been here in a few days." Bobby's voice was gruff. "Looks like they left in a hurry."

Belongings were scattered around; clearly someone had intended to return. From the looks of the insect covered food left on the table they'd been disturbed while they were eating and left in a hurry.

Dean tucked his gun back into the waistband of his pants, gagging a little at the smell as he approached the remains of a cooked chicken. He scooped it up quickly in an old cloth and kicked open the back door onto the dock, keeping one forearm across his nose.

"Sonofabitch! Friggin' insects!"

He flicked the cloth, catapulting the chicken and its inhabitants into the gloomy waters of the swamp. It was still in sight, sinking slowly, when there was a swish of movement below the surface and something dark and amphibious snatched it away. Dean backed off, disgust plain on his face. "No skinny dipping here, Sammy," he muttered sourly.

Shotgun propped against the wall, Bobby began rifling through a pile of paperwork on an upturned wooden crate serving as a coffee table. The younger hunters moved through the cabin methodically, checking pockets, bags. There was nothing unusual, or at least nothing unusual to the eye of another hunter.

"Wherever they went, looks like they left in the truck." Sam sighed. "It's getting dark. Too late to go poking around outside tonight."

His brother pounced on a brightly colored piece of paper in the pile on the table. It was a menu for a local diner. "The Hungry Gator" he read aloud, "…the only place to eat when you're hungry as an alligator!" He smirked, "Hey, listen to this menu. Grilled alligator, catfish chowder, swamp stew… hang on a minute…" His face lit up. "Traditional pail of ale. Wild pig burgers, the biggest burgers in the lower 48!" He waved the menu excitedly. "That I've gotta try!"

Sam stared at him without enthusiasm.

"Aww c'mon Sammy! I'm starvin'." Dean swung to Bobby for support. "Bobby?"

Bobby shrugged, picking up his shotgun. "Might as well start askin' around there as any place else I guess. I could use me a beer after that drive."

Dean smirked triumphantly at his brother, slapped at a mosquito that was attached to his neck and headed to the door. He was half way back to the Impala when he hit a solid wall of exhaustion. He'd driven, at his own insistence, for the majority of the long haul down from South Dakota and between one stride and the next it caught up with him so suddenly he actually faltered. He sucked in a lungful of air, the humidity clogging in his lungs, making him cough. Sam slapped him on the back, snagged the keys out of his hand and pointed sternly at the passenger seat. Too tired to argue, Dean flopped into the hot stove that was now the Impala's interior. He was really looking forward to that cool beer.

.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the diner. A brightly lit sign on the roof stood out from the dark backdrop of trees, 'The Hungry Gator' strobing at them in large neon letters, underlined by a cartoon figure of a man running, pursued by an eager looking alligator.

Sam snorted, thinking of the menu. "They've got that the wrong way around."

The night was full of the sound of insects and frogs, between them managing to cover the entire range of sounds audible to the human ear. A dull thump of music joined in briefly as someone exited the rear door of the diner and disappeared into the darkness. Seconds later there was the sound of a boat engine revving up and throbbing away into the distance.

Bobby lead the way to the main door and entered first, to be greeted by the inevitable swing of heads, mildly curious eyes roving over strangers this far out in the swamp, before lowering again to their burgers and beers. A small group of men sat a little apart from the other customers. Although they were dressed the same as everyone else they seemed oddly out of place, an invisible barrier between them and the other customers. They stared hard at Bobby, losing interest when they took in his greasy jeans, baseball cap and torn shooting jacket. The hard eyes narrowed as Sam stepped through the door, a small, pleasant smile on his face. He halted, uneasy at the feeling of antagonism coming from the small group, his hunter's instincts going on full alert.

"Stop smilin' dude." Dean's quiet snarl was in his ear as his brother crowded through the doorway behind him and stepped around to stand in front, relaxed but somehow exuding danger, a scowl fixed firmly in place. The faces dropped, eyes shifting away from the feral glint in the green eyes as he glared across the room. Only one pair of eyes held his for a second or two before their owner shifted slightly back into shadow. Dark brown eyes under black brows and a faded blue cap. Dean filed it away for future reference.

They settled at a table, Dean shifting his body slightly so he could see the small group over his brother's shoulder.

"Friendly bunch," muttered Sam darkly.

Dean smirked at him. "You smile too much dude. Makes you look like easy prey."

Sam sighed. There was no question he could handle himself in a fight, but sometimes he missed the academic sophistication of Palo Alto, where you could go out for a beer without feeling the need to be armed and alert.

The pail of beer, condensation beading on its surface, met their expectations. The diner was busy, steadily filling with a mix of locals, hunters, tourists and nature reserve employees, the latter all markedly not eating anything resembling the local wildlife.

The food took a while to arrive, but when it came it was good although Dean found his appetite had deserted him. He settled on fries, deciding regretfully that the biggest burger in the lower 48 would have to wait until their next visit.

"You okay?" Sam frowned, watching his brother poke the fries aimlessly around the plate.

Dean shrugged it off. "Too hot to eat. I'm gonna get me a whiskey." He pushed the half-full plate away and sauntered to the bar to join Bobby, who was in conversation with some locals, leaving Sam to tackle the nature reserve types. He noted out of the corner of his eye that the small group were leaving, slipping away through the crowd and out of the back door.

By the time Bobby called it a night they were all yawning, but putting together the snippets of gossip they could state with certainty that Jake and Verne had been to the diner on more than one occasion but hadn't been seen for a few days, that being remarkable to the gossipers only because a steady number of visitors had been disappearing from the area over the previous few years. Everyone had their own theory about the disappearances; the swamp covered a massive area and its surreal beauty hid a multitude of hidden dangers. Tomorrow they would write the stories down, try and find some pattern in amongst the idle chat.

"Guy from the nature reserve, he's going to show me around tomorrow, some of the local sights." Sam sounded enthusiastic. "He was up in Palo Alto a few years ago, changed his major, ended up here. He took Jake on the same tour, so I figure maybe he had a lead?"

"You want me along?" There was a marked lack of enthusiasm in Dean's voice; Sam hoped it was a desire to avoid academic conversation rather than anything more sinister.

"Not much point. I'll just be gathering information." He eyed Dean warily, almost disappointed at the lack of protest. His brother was quiet, staring into the trees as they pulled up by the cabin.

"Did you see that?"

Sam stared. Just trees. "What?"

"Thought I saw a face…" Dean frowned, squinting into the darkness. "Nevermind, must've been the shadow." He followed Sam to the cabin, an uneasy prickle between his shoulder blades. He made sure they locked up securely, put his shotgun next to the bed and his knife in its customary place under the pillow, unable to shake off a feeling of being watched.

.

Hours later, still struggling to sleep, Dean gave it up as a bad idea. He wriggled uncomfortably on the hard bunk, listening to the snores of the other men. Maybe a swig or two of whiskey would help. He stepped silently across the stripes of moonlight on the wooden floor, pulled his hipflask out of his duffle and took a couple of mouthfuls, the burn trickling down his throat and pooling in his stomach. It was still unpleasantly hot in the room and he swatted angrily at a midge that was persistently nipping at his shoulder.

Aimlessly he drifted to the window, exhausted but too wired to sleep. He rested his forehead against the glass, chasing an illusion of coolness that wasn't real, stared out at the trees and their dark shadows on the moonlit water. He blinked sleepily, mind drifting, wasn't sure how long he'd been there when he became aware of a figure standing at edge of the trees. A young girl, maybe 10 or 12 from her height, wearing a sleeveless sundress, staring towards the cabin. He jerked upright, suddenly fully awake, blinking furiously. The figure was gone. He waited in the shadows at the side of the window for a long time, eventually convincing himself he must have either been half asleep, dreaming, or that there was a ghost roaming around in the trees. He checked the salt lines, sat on a chair facing the door with his shotgun propped across his knees and settled down to wait for daylight.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam awoke to the sight of his brother sprawled in a chair, shotgun across his knees, his eyelids at half-mast.

"Dean!" he protested, simultaneously concerned about the defensive position and guilty that his brother was the one doing the guarding, when he had so clearly needed to rest.

Dean shot upright, startled, his eyes flying fully open. He stared at Sam for a second, then grated out, "Ghost. Last night." He cleared his throat noisily, gesturing in the general direction of the treeline.

"Dude, you need to sleep! Why didn't you wake me?"

Sam scrubbed sleep from his eyes, swinging his long legs off the bunk. He noted that the combination of the pale light of morning and exhaustion had turned his brother's skin almost grey. It brought a familiar clench of worry to Sam's stomach.

Dean stood up, stretching his stiff muscles.

"C'mon, get your boots on, I'm gonna check it out with the EMF."

He was rooting it out of his bag as he spoke, already heading for the door. Sam stuffed his feet into his boots and followed, grabbing his shotgun on the way.

They spent a good half hour poking around at the edge of the trees. There was no sign anyone had been there, corporeal or spirit. Dean patrolled up and down, EMF in hand, looking increasingly despondent.

"Dean?"

There was no indication Dean had even heard him. Sam tried again.

"Dean! Hey, maybe you dreamt it y'know. You're exhausted man, you need some sleep."

His brother stared at him; he looked almost stunned with exhaustion. Sam took the EMF out of his hand, prising it gently out of his fingers.

"C'mon. Me and Bobby are here, you can sleep now."

.

Dean stalled long enough to take a quick shower in the wooden cubicle that served as a bathroom. It was only tepid, harvested rainwater, but it was clean and at least the water was cooler than the stifling air in the cabin.

The doors and windows were wide open to catch any passing breeze, the mesh screens in place to try and cut down on the number of mosquitoes sneaking into the living area. Even so the temperature was climbing by the minute and Dean decided against joggers, padding across to his bunk in just boxers, grateful that his wet hair gave him a momentary impression of coolness.

He flopped face down, sprawling across the bunk. Within seconds he was out, fingers relaxing their grip on the pillows and the tension dropping out of his shoulders.

Sam sighed with relief, absently flicking a biting fly off his brother's forearm.

"You better get gone. I'll keep a watch on him. When he wakes up, we'll go get some supplies, this box ain't gonna last long." Bobby shut the coolbox he'd brought with him from South Dakota. "I'm gonna write up them notes from last night, see if I can figure out some pattern. Here..." He tossed his car keys to Sam. "Take my car. It'll only be parked by the diner all day and it'll stop princess here worryin' about the Impala."

Sam grabbed his daysack, threw a worried glance at his limp brother and was gone.

.

With Sam out for the day and Dean asleep, Bobby settled down at the makeshift coffee table and spread out his notes. He began to go through them again, occasionally adding things to the plan tacked to the wall. It was covering the same old ground, but somewhere there had to be a clue. He must've missed something. Even in this kind of terrain, people didn't keep on going missing by accident.

The temperature in the cabin rose steadily; Dean began to mumble unhappily behind him and shift about. Bobby realised the sun had moved around so that a broad strip of sunlight now lay across the bunk. He dug out an old blanket and hung it from the rusty nails over the window, noticing as he passed that the younger hunter was covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair plastered wet against his scalp.

" _Looks like a decent meal wouldn't do him no harm_ ," he thought, surprised at how much weight Dean had lost, the difference clearly visible now he wasn't wrapped in his customary layers. " _Come to think of it, the idjit ain't been eating like he used to_."

Bobby scratched his head, wondering what to do for the best, then he remembered the menu Dean had tucked in his pocket the evening before. Maybe he could pick up something later that'd tempt him?

Dean's jeans were hanging over the end of a chair and Bobby dug into the pocket, pulling out a folded leaflet instead of the expected menu. He opened it slowly with a sinking feeling in his gut as he saw the title. He read carefully, committing the main points to memory, before slipping the leaflet back into Dean's pocket.

"Balls." Dean was still carrying the information with him and was referring to it regularly if the creases and marks on the leaflet were anything to go by. Obviously he was hiding more from them than they'd thought. No wonder he was on edge all the time.

"Aw Dean," he muttered. "Why didn't ya say somethin'?"

Didn't matter the boy wasn't his son by blood, he might as well be and he needed to look out for him more. Dean was always too good at flying under the radar; he shouldn't even be here, stuck in some grimy cabin, never mind on a hunt.

Sleep first, Bobby decided, let him get some rest, then get some food in him. He moved his chair and notes closer to the bunk, tore a flap off an old box and waved it around vigorously, stirring the warm air, telling himself he was keeping cool and who cared if the wafts of air travelled more often in the direction of the bunk than his own face.

.

Martin's handshake was unexpectedly strong, bearing in mind his stature. It put Sam in mind of his father telling him years before that you could tell a lot about a man by the strength of his handshake.

"So, anywhere particular you want to see?" Martin stepped into the metal boat, holding it steady against the dock as Sam boarded.

"Just a general look around I guess? See what a swamp is like. Hey, you said Jake took a tour with you? How about we do the same route?"

"Sure thing, it's your dollar." Martin's tone was casual as he cast off, but Sam had a feeling he was a hard man to fool.

.

Dean emerged gradually from jumbled dreams, something about ghostly children and moonlit trees and a warm breeze. The breeze at least seemed to be reality and he raised his head groggily, catching a glimpse of Bobby waving a large piece of box in the air.

"What the hell, Bobby?"

There was an odd expression on the old hunter's face for a moment, before it settled back into its normal pugnacious frown.

"What?" He sounded grouchy, frowning at Dean. "Keepin' m'self cool." He dropped the cardboard and turned away, rubbing at his elbow with a pained expression on his face.

.

Martin's knowledge of the swamp and its inhabitants was surpassed only by his enthusiasm and Sam found he was enjoying himself far more than he'd anticipated. The swamp was a mysterious place, narrow channels of water hemmed in by tall reeds suddenly opening out into areas covered with green lily pads, little feather-light birds running across them, seemingly oblivious to the dark bumps of alligator snouts sticking just out of the water. Further out they turned into the trees, passing tall, pale trunks, their lower halves swollen and bulbous and eerie in the dim, green light.

The boat slowed, its engine chugging. Martin turned to him. "This here is as far as I brought Jake."

They turned a last bend and the trees ended abruptly, replaced by a forest of dead black trunks rising from the water.

"The big fire ended here. I don't go past this point, too many fallen branches." Martin paused, seeming to make up his mind about something.

"Sam, you're no fool, you wouldn't have had a scholarship to Stanford if you were. So I'm not gonna treat you like one. Jake, he wasn't too interested in the wildlife, not really. He was interested in all the folk who've gone missing around here. And now Jake is missing and I'm thinking you're looking for him and maybe for the same thing he was?"

Sam stared at him, not sure what to say, but Martin rushed on.

"It's okay, I get you can't tell me, I guess you're government or something. But let me tell you this. Jake was right, there is somethin' going on around here. People are scared, real scared. And these people, they don't scare easy. There's somethin' bad out here. Not wildlife bad either, somethin' else. The victims, they see things before they're taken. Same story every time. They thought they were being watched, then next thing they're gone. Whatever it is you do, you and your family, you be careful, y'hear?"

.

"C'mon Bobby! I need me some cold beer!" Dean was impatient, the thought of ice cold beer and a ceiling fan seeming more attractive by the minute.

Bobby slammed the cabin door, headed towards the Impala, a familiar glare in place.

Dean was cranking her up when he saw the eyes staring at him out of the trees. He shot out of the car, gun in hand.

"Dean?"

"Over there." He approached the trees carefully, Bobby close behind. "There's something out there, watching us."

They found nothing but a few animal tracks. The EMF meter stayed stubbornly quiet, its needle not even quivering.

Eventually they drove away from the cabin in silence, Dean gradually convincing himself he was seeing things; Bobby not sure whether to worry more about it being a hallucination, or it being real so Dean had to hunt after all.


	6. Chapter 6

A jug of beer arrived. Dean eyed it happily; it was a welcome sight in the heat of the diner. There was no air conditioning and although the ceiling fans stirred the hot air in listless swirls they did nothing to lower the temperature. For all that, he was more than happy to be 'getting information from the locals' in the bar, while Bobby paid a visit to the store.

His appetite had disappeared again when the smells of cooking food hit his nostrils. He was disappointed, having spent the drive from the cabin working himself up for another shot at the 'biggest burger in the lower 48'. Maybe the persistent food-related nausea was something that would just clear up in time, or maybe he was just too tired, or too friggin' hot.

He brushed thoughts of food aside and settled down to the serious business of gathering information and drinking ice cold beer.

.

Sam stretched out in the metal boat. Despite the heat and the underlying serious nature of the tour, it had been a long time since he'd felt so relaxed.

He loved his brother, but Dean wasn't always the easiest person to live alongside. Post head injury Dean was an even more volatile mix of mood swings, secrets and sheer pig-headedness than normal. He knew Dean was trying, hell he always tried, too hard if anything. But it was good to have a 'day off'. A day of beautiful sights, because yes, the swamp was actually really beautiful, albeit in a slightly alien and sometimes forbidding way. A day free from his brother? He sat up immediately, feeling first guilty, then annoyed at himself for feeling guilty, then just annoyed.

Martin watched the expressions chase across his face; he pointed lazily at the swamp. "Let it go, man," he said. "Whatever it is, day like today, out here, it's a long way off."

He looked at Sam with sympathy on his face. "Y'know, when I first came out here, I was a mess. But this place, it grows on you. People who live here, they love the place. Tourists come from all over to see the wildlife and those that really stop and listen, open their eyes and ears, they get more from this place than a few photos of alligators."

Sam sighed, lifting a shoulder in amused acknowledgement. "You read all that just from my face, huh? You get tired of the wildlife, guess you might have a second calling in therapy." He grinned, took a deep breath and settled back, closing his eyes and letting the sound of birdcalls, insects and frogs wash over him, soothed by the slap of water against the metal hull of the boat and the gentle burble of the engine running on low revs behind him.

He'd reached a place nearing sleep when the harsh sound of a big motor running at high revs split the air. They were travelling down a narrow channel between the reeds and although they never saw the other boat, the disturbance of its passing in some nearby, parallel channel caused the tall stalks to sway and brought a frown to Martin's face.

Sam looked at him sharply. "You know who that is?"

"I've got an idea." Martin sounded unhappy. "Troublemakers. Not just on the water either. You'll know 'em for what they are if you see 'em. Stay clear."

.

Bobby dropped a couple of paper sacks into the Impala's back seat and shoved his hands in his pockets as he waited for Sam. The younger hunter was on the dock by the nature reserve office; he grabbed his daysack out of the boat, shook hands with Martin and headed over to Bobby.

"Beer?" Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Y'brother's already inside."

Sam huffed a laugh. "He would be. Yeah, beer. Cold beer."

They pushed into the dim light of the diner. Dean spotted them immediately from his position by the bar. "Hey Sammy!" His face cracked into a huge grin. "Awesome hair man!"

Sam caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. A combination of the humidity and the breeze made by the movement of the boat had caused his hair to increase to twice its normal volume. It sat atop his head looking for all the world like an escaped Caucasian mountain dog. He patted at it ineffectually with his large hands, adding static to the mix and causing small spikes which waved in the slow draft from the fan.

Dean doubled over, holding his side as he whooped with laughter. Sam glared at him, pointing wordlessly at a huge insect bite decorating his brother's forehead. Still laughing, Dean ran his fingers over his forehead, the laugh cutting off abruptly.

Sam smirked; the look of horror on his brother's face was more than enough payback. It was so Dean, he thought. Doesn't care if half the state has been punching him in the head, that's manly, but one little bite on that face and it's all over.

"What the fuck!" Dean had moved along to the bar mirror. He poked at his forehead angrily. "Friggin' insects. Friggin' swamp!"

Bobby rolled his eyes, pointing to the new jug of beer the waitress had set down on a nearby table. "Sorry sons of bitches, the pair of ya."

He headed off to the far end of the bar, motioning for the waitress to follow him. If burgers were off Dean's menu, he wanted a quick word about what else was available.

The chef poked his head out of the hatch and Bobby gruffly waffled out a story of injuries and lost appetites that soon produced an order and also seemed to completely disarm the listening waitress, who headed off immediately to see if there was anything she could do to assist the injured party. The chef liked to talk, so Bobby hung around by the hatch, plying him with beer and getting all sorts of information in exchange.

By the time he returned to the table, he knew far more about the disappearances. He'd also mentally filed away a throw-away, angry comment about the nature reserve and how the chef's family had lost hunting rights.

He arrived back at the same time as the food. It wasn't their usual selection and Sam's mouth was already opening to comment, but he caught on quickly enough when Bobby gestured at him from behind Dean's head. He began digging in with enthusiasm, agreeing it was too hot for damn burgers anyhow.

Dean looked a little puzzled, staring at his plate. He looked up quickly, realised no-one was watching and then slowly raised a forkful to his mouth. He chewed cautiously, gradually relaxing with a look of distinct relief.

"Damn straight," he muttered, forking up another mouthful. "Too hot for burgers."

.

"What the hell _was_ that?" Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean's empty plate; his brother was out of sight and earshot in the back of the diner, having been promised an insect bite remedy by the waitress. Sam was trying not to think too hard about what that might involve.

Bobby shrugged. "That was y'brother eatin' his first decent meal for a time. While you was off in the swamp I found me a leaflet in Dean's pocket…"

.

"It's the best thing y'can get for it, sugar." Ginny, long-time waitress and relative of the owners of The Hungry Gator, was all reassurance as she dabbed some moonshine onto Dean's forehead from a large jug secreted among the storage shelves. Dean had no objection to being shut in the storeroom with a curvy waitress wearing a miniscule dress, but he was relieved when she whipped a couple of shot glasses out of her apron pocket, filled them both to the brim and handed one over. Shine was for drinking, not putting on your forehead where it stung like an angry bee.

"This shine gets in your bloodstream, y'won't have no more trouble with them flies." She smiled sweetly. "Let's see if you boys from outside the swamps can drink like a man?"

Dean waggled an eyebrow, raised his glass. The smell of neat alcohol seared his nostrils. He braced himself, downed it in one, blinking when the burn hit his throat and flamed down into his gut. He was still trying to breathe when Ginny put her full glass onto a shelf and fastened her lips onto his, pushing him back against the shelves.

.

"Dean! Dean! We're goin' dude." Sam frowned; there was no way, just no way, he was going into that storeroom.

There was a clatter of something falling, a giggle and then Dean slipped through the doorway, looking a bit dishevelled. Sam could feel his face settling into a familiar pattern as his brother rolled his eyes and pushed past him.

"Fun. It's fun, Sam. Wanna try it some time." He snatched up a glass of water from their table on the way past, drinking it down in one. Ginny had been pretty naughty, but even good times and the taste of her cherry flavoured lip gloss hadn't removed the bitter aftertaste of the moonshine.

She leant around the doorway, smirking. "I'll be seein' ya soon, sugar!"

.

Sam and Bobby were soon deep in discussion over the map. Bobby had re-drawn the circles he'd placed around each point of disappearance, increasing the radius from a couple of miles to twenty. The previous, widely scattered pattern was gone. The circles now clearly overlapped. Right in the centre was an area of swamp that included their cabin, the nature reserve office, store and the diner. Whatever it was they were hunting, it had a large territory and they were right in the middle of it.

Dean watched them, standing to one side where the light from the lamp was dim. He let the conversation wash over him. The bitter taste of the moonshine was persistent; it seemed to be spreading into his sinuses, making his eyes water and he rubbed them angrily, feeling suddenly dizzy. One drink, he thought. He was Dean Winchester and he couldn't handle one friggin' shot of moonshine. He backed off, pushing his way out through the door onto the dock where he leant up the wall of the cabin, breathing deeply and trying to clear his head.

Sam's cell rang, the sound shrill in the thick air of the cabin. He spoke briefly into it and shoved it into his pocket. "That was Martin. Someone else has gone missing. I'll drive over, see what I can find out."

"You want me to come?" Dean stuck his head around the door.

"No. If there's anything up there, I'll call." Sam was already half out of the main door, snagging up Bobby's keys on the way past.

Dean wanted to protest, but the bitter taste clogged in his throat and he couldn't get the words out. He gripped hard to the door frame as the dock seemed to roll beneath his feet. By the time it settled, the rattle of Bobby's car was already receding into the distance.

He slumped back against the outside wall, blinking furiously until his vision cleared. To his horror, two men were stood on the water side of the dock railings, staring directly at him. Dean yelled in shock, falling back through the doorway, barely able to keep his feet as the room tilted and swayed. Bobby leapt towards him, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"Two men, get m'gun." Dean could hear his voice slurring.

Bobby pushed him down onto a chair and rushed outside with a shotgun. There was a pause, then the sound of Bobby's boots stomping up and down on the wooden planks before he came back inside slowly, pity on his face as he took in the pale face and glassy eyes in front of him.

"Easy kiddo, easy. There's nothin' there."

Dean stared at him, confused. "They _were_ there," he muttered, fighting to stay upright on the chair.

Bobby put a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's okay son. Don't ya worry about it." He sucked in a breath noisily. "Saw that leaflet y'been keepin' hidden. This'll pass, y'just gotta take it easy."

"You've been goin' through my shit!" A flood of adrenaline sharpened Dean's eyesight. He lurched upwards. "I'm not goin' crazy dude! They were there!"

He slapped away Bobby's hand and took a couple of weaving steps out onto the dock. Nothing. No sign of the men anywhere. He hung onto the rail, looking down into the dark water, unwilling to go back inside. When was this going to be over? What the hell was wrong with him; he felt friggin' drugged.

A little movement fluttered in the corner of his eye. He turned slowly. The girl in the sundress was right next to him, staring into his face. He yelped, stepped back involuntarily and felt the top rail of the dock give a little against his lower back. He glanced behind him, staggered forwards again, instinctively afraid of the dark water.

The girl was gone, but a familiar figure stood in her place. The dark-eyed man from the diner was smirking as his fist cracked into Dean's jaw. Already dizzy, Dean was thrown backwards; he felt the top rail splinter and give way as the lower rail caught behind his knees. There was an awful moment when he knew he was going to fall and there was nothing he could do about it, then he was toppling helplessly backwards, the dark waters closing over his head.

Bobby heard the crack of the rail breaking and rushed through the door in time to see Dean fall off the edge of the dock. Something hard and heavy hit the back of his head and he was knocked to his knees. As he tried to get back up he saw a boat slip out from underneath the dock. Dean's head broke water alongside it and a man stood up in the boat and swung a pole at the back of his neck.

Just before the second blow smashed him into oblivion, Bobby saw Dean floating face down on the surface, as the man fished for him with a pole hook. His last thought was that he wasn't even sure if Dean was still alive.


	7. Chapter 7

Bobby struggled up onto his knees, dismayed to hear the sound of the boat's engine receding into the distance. He shook his head to clear it, regretting it immediately as it pulsed painfully and caused his stomach to clench. He heaved the contents onto the dock, some of the vomit dripping through the gaps in the boards into the water below. There was a swirl of movement in the water, something snapping on the surface. Bobby lurched to his feet, revolted.

The boat had gone. There was no sign of Dean.

He fumbled for his cell as he backed into the cabin and shut the door. His call to Sam went straight to voicemail and so he snatched up the shotgun and filled his pockets with shells. He paused just long enough to down a couple of Tylenol and a bottle of water, stuffing another bottle and the rest of the packet into his pocket. It was a good thing he was a tough old bastard, he thought, with a head like a buffalo. He was getting too old for this shit.

Minutes later he was in the Impala, driving without any care at all down the rough track. Dean was more than welcome to throw a fit later. First he had to get hold of Sam, then find Dean. Apologies and repairs could wait for another day.

A mile or so short of town his priorities changed abruptly. Now it was find Sam, then find Dean. His own car was stationary in the middle of the track, headlights still blazing; the driver's door was wide open. There was no sign of Sam.

Bobby took the powerful flashlight out of the Impala's trunk. His experienced eyes read the signs of a brief struggle and something, someone, heavy being dragged down to the water. There were boot marks on the bank and the scrape where a boat had been pulled up against the dirt. Sam was long gone.

.

Martin was waiting patiently when Bobby drove up to the nature reserve office. He was clearly shocked by the news, struggling to take on board the knowledge that Sam and his brother had both been taken.

"I should never have said anythin' to him." The remorse was clear in his voice.

"Ain't your fault. We was already involved." Bobby had his eye on the diner, where the chef was locking up for the night. Something in their conversation earlier was nagging at him. It was only a little inconsistency but, in the circumstances, anything might be a lead.

"I'm gonna check somethin' out." He gestured at the diner. The chef had secured the main door and was heading around the corner of the building towards the area at the back, where the cold store and garbage bins were located.

Martin was already casting off his boat. He nodded. "I'll do a quick run up to your cabin, see if I can spot anything. I'll be back in fifteen, twenty minutes and we'll head out into the swamp. Anything out there tonight, it'll be using lights, it should be easy enough to spot."

Bobby raised a hand in acknowledgement and jogged behind the diner.

There was no sign of the chef but light shone through the open door of the cold store. He stepped towards it, his night vision momentarily destroyed as he hollered a greeting. There was no answer so he poked his head in through the doorway. The light snapped off. A hard kick in the small of his back threw him forwards into the chilly air of the store.

.

The discomfort of his hip bone grinding against an unyielding surface brought Sam back to a fuzzy state of consciousness. A continuous loud noise and the movement of the hard floor beneath his prone body added to his confusion. He could hear voices, shouting above the sound of what appeared to be a powerful engine. He realised the side of his face was pressed against the cool bottom of a metal boat. The vibration of the engine and the thud of the boat hull hitting the water were transmitted through the metal skin, leading him to believe they were travelling at some speed. He could see a dark figure sitting upright in front of him, outlined against the white beam of the spotlights that were aimed in their direction of travel.

He felt nauseous from the blow that had laid him out and the movement of the boat wasn't helping. A throbbing in his forehead and the dizziness that swept over him when he cautiously turned his head suggested at least a mild concussion was probably on the cards. He tested his limbs slowly, careful not to attract attention. As far as he could tell they were undamaged, although his movements were limited; it appeared he was well restrained with large cable ties.

Sam's mind began to clear, aided by the draft of air spilling into the boat as it surged forwards. He inched onto his back, rolling his head slowly in the other direction. There was a wet looking bundle of something next to him; the backwash of light from the spot lamps reflected off the shine of water seeping across the bottom of the boat in his direction. Wet cloth or tarpaulin perhaps?

He had no time to ponder; the boat slowed rapidly and pulled up against a wooden dock. Warm yellow light from the shore spilled into the interior and Sam's breath stuttered in horror. The wet bundle was his brother, face-down and limp in the bottom of the boat. His white face was turned slightly towards Sam, mouth open a little. Sam couldn't tell if he was breathing or not but noticed with a lurch of his heart that Dean was not bound.

Seconds later a flashlight shone in his face; he screwed his eyes shut involuntarily.

"This un is awake." A hard voice, accompanied by an even harder boot slamming into his ribs.

"Get him up."

Hands dragged at him, hauling him up and out of the boat to land on his knees on the wooden planks of the dock. There was the unmistakeable feel of a rifle or shotgun muzzle jabbing against his spine. Someone slashed the tie holding his feet together.

"On your feet!"

He struggled to rise, almost fell. A hand lifted him by his armpit and propelled him forwards along a short boardwalk and through an open cabin door. The dim lighting showed substantial log walls, a bare board floor, metal rings and chains bolted to the walls at intervals around the room. The smell of damp and urine hit his nostrils.

An unexpected kick to the back of his knees sent him sprawling. There was the sharp rattle of chain and the snap of cuffs around his wrist and ankle. A man leant over him; he sliced through the cable ties on Sam's wrists and flicked them away across the floor.

Sam shuffled up onto his ass, his back against the wall, trying to get his head around what was happening as two men crowded through the doorway. Dean was hanging between them, his boots dragging on the floor. He was thrown carelessly into the corner where he landed in an untidy heap. The man in the blue baseball cap leant over him. He lifted an eyelid, then took hold of Dean's jaw and turned his head to one side, pressing a large finger against the side of his neck. He made a noise of irritation.

"This one is still well out. How much did that dumb bitch give him? He's not gonna be any use 'til it's all outta his system."

They clumped out of the room, slamming the door behind them. Sam heard the sound of a chain and the snick of a padlock.

"Shit. Shit! Dean? Dean! Are you okay man?"

"He'll be out for a bit. Drugged him, just like me and… and Jake."

The hoarse voice came from the other corner. There was a shuffling sound and Verne leant forwards into the dim light.

"Verne! Is that you? What the hell is goin' on?"

Verne sounded unsure. "Yeah, I'm Verne. How d'ya know that?"

"It's Sam Winchester. Me and my brother came up here with Bobby Singer to look for you and Jake."

"Sam Winchester. Yeah I recognise ya now. Looks like ya found me. Not quite the rescue I was hopin' for." Verne laughed, the sound reedy and desperate.

"Where's Jake?"

"Oh hell, I wish I knew." There was a catch in Verne's voice. "They took him outta here two days ago. Least I think it was two days ago. I ain't seen him since."

"What's goin' on here man? What've they done to my brother?"

Verne sounded sad. "That's Dean? They got ya both then. They drugged him I reckon. Got me and Jake with the damn moonshine at the Hungry Gator. Next thing I know we're in here, chained up. Reckon we're way out in the swamp somewheres. Never hear no-one else around, just them three and what sounds like some mighty big gators."

"Is he going to be okay?"

Verne shrugged. "Should be, drug makes you feel shitty for a day or so. He's a healthy guy though right? How'd they get you?"

"I had a call from Martin, the wildlife guy. Said a local had gone missing. Driving in I passed a kid, a little girl, stood in the road. She was crying. I got out and next thing I woke up in a boat. Guess they jumped me." Sam rubbed with care at the sore spot on his head, wincing a little and wondering what had happened to Bobby.

"Bobby," he asked. "Have you seen him?"

"No. Don't reckon they'd want him here. He doesn't fit the profile. All the folk who've gone missing, they're in their twenties, thirties. Me and Jake, we'd been poking around and couldn't find nothing supernatural. We was about to pack up. Then Jake got a call, the waitress at the diner, said she'd some information for us. Next thing, we're here."

Verne sagged back into the shadows. Sam's mind was racing. He was about to fire another question at him when he heard Dean's boot scrape on the boards. His brother groaned.

"Dean!" Sam shuffled along on his ass as far as the chains would allow. He was several feet short of being able to make physical contact. "Dean!"

Dean moaned again; he muttered something under his breath and slowly opened his eyes.

"Sam?"

"I'm here. Take it easy man, I think you've been drugged."

Dean rolled slowly onto his side, tugging at the chain attached to his wrist in a puzzled way.

"What the hell?"

Sam explained as well as he could; he wasn't sure how much his brother took in but the sound of his voice seemed to be bringing Dean gradually back towards full consciousness.

"Moonshine," said Dean eventually, his voice a little slurred. "Bitch spiked my drink." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Some sonofabitch hit me when I was in the water."

"You were in the water? How did you… nevermind." Sam felt his frustration building. He needed to check his brother for injuries. "How do you feel? Is your head okay?"

Dean frowned at him. "No Sammy, my head is not okay. Some weird ass freak just smacked it with a wooden pole! If you're asking is my brain okay, yeah, it's kinda spacey but it's okay. Are you hurt?"

"Dean I'm fine. We need to get out of here."

"You don't say." Dean's tone was laced with sarcasm. He rubbed the back of his neck again. "I'm gonna gank that sonofabitch!"

He struggled up until he was in a sitting position, letting his head roll back against the wall. Sam could see his throat muscles flex as he swallowed hard and guessed his brother was feeling nauseous.

There was the sound of approaching footsteps; the door was unlocked and two men entered. One threw a plastic bottle of water at Verne.

"Drink. Now."

Verne took the bottle with shaking hands, cracked it open and drank thirstily. He blinked up at the man, fear in his wide eyes as the man unlocked the restraints, covered all the time by rifle of his companion.

"Get up." He kicked at Verne.

Verne cowered. "No."

"Y'scared? Good. Makes it sweeter. Get up and run. Let's see if y'can get further than that friend of yours."

He kicked Verne again. "Y'can run, or my cousin here, he's gonna shoot ya. Not to kill, understand? Just to make y'bleed a little. Then you'll have us and the gators huntin' y'down."

He hauled Verne to his feet and virtually threw him through the door, firing a shot over his head from a revolver. Verne took off running and the door slammed shut.

Dean started to tug frantically at the chains, his movements uncoordinated.

"Fuck! Makes what sweeter! This is a whole new level of crazy!"

After a couple of minutes he subsided untidily back onto the floor, his eyes glazing over.

"Uhh, that bitch. What'd she put in my drink." He rubbed at his face. "Don't feel too good…"

"Dean, sit down man. I'll try."

Sam checked through his pockets. They were empty. He stood up as far as he was able and began to swing his entire body weight against the chains, trying to loosen the bolts in the wall. His head was pounding, muscles straining, but there was no give in the restraints.

.

The door of the cold store slammed to, metal against metal. Bobby swung around and bumped into an icy carcass, setting it swinging. He found the door with his hands. There was no handle inside. He felt around in the darkness: cold metal surfaces, icy bones on a tray. He shuddered, pulling out his lighter. A quick flick revealed there were no windows, only one inward opening door. A metal work surface held a few prepared cuts of meat, some long bones, ground meat in a bowl. Behind him the shadowy carcass, suspended from the ceiling, was still swinging gently from the impact of his shoulder.

He tried his cell. There was no signal inside the metal walls.

"Balls!"

He used the light from the cell to have a better look around. There was no obvious weak point. "Jack," he snarled bitterly. "With a side of squat!"

Maybe he could prise the door open? There was a machete by the bones.

He reversed slowly, shining the light up at the ceiling and into the corners, double checking for some deficiency in the construction of the store before he started attacking the door.

He bumped into the carcass again and pushed it away irritably, then realised with a sense of shock that his fingers had encountered a frozen wristwatch. He swung the light towards the carcase and nearly dropped his cell.

It was Jake.


	8. Chapter 8

When Martin pulled up alongside the dock, there was no sign of Bobby. He waited for a few minutes, looking anxiously around, then moored the boat and set off on foot.

He jogged as far as the diner, calling Bobby's name periodically. The older man couldn't have gone far, he thought; the Impala was still parked up by the nature reserve office, but there was no sign of Bobby. The diner was locked and dark and the whole area looked deserted.

He took out his cell, then realised he didn't have Bobby's number. Perhaps he should just call the law enforcement agencies instead? That seemed a little pointless as the relatives of the missing person had surely already summoned them? It seemed obvious to him that Bobby and all four younger men were members of some government agency anyway, sent here to investigate the missing persons. In turn, that should mean that Bobby was in regular touch with the authorities.

Even so, he felt uneasy at the man's sudden disappearance, particularly when he'd been so concerned about Sam and Dean and so determined to accompany Martin into the swamp. In the end he placed a quick call to the local sheriff who, it turned out, had no knowledge of anyone local going missing. Martin cut him off in the middle of his heated declaration that he was coming over immediately and Martin should stay put. A flicker of lights far out in the swamp had caught his eye.

He climbed back into the boat. There was still no sign of Bobby but the swamp was vast; if he lost sight of the lights now they may never see the younger men again. Swallowing his nerves, he cast off and powered away from the shore.

.

Sam wrenched at the bolt until his wrist and ankle were bleeding and his muscles were sore. It was still solid. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and flopped down against the wall, his head throbbing in time with his rapid heartbeat, trying to catch his breath.

Dean was still huddled in the corner, the dim light shining off the sheen of sweat on his face. He looked tense, nostrils flared. Sam wasn't surprised when he suddenly rolled sideways onto his elbow and began to retch, eventually bringing up a fair quantity of swamp water and bile. When the coughing and heaving subsided he shuffled backwards, as far away from the mess as possible, wiping at his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve.

"I'm gonna gank that bitch." It was quiet and hoarse, but at least he was talking. It was a welcome relief after the absence of any comment from him during the previous hour; Dean and quiet did not sit naturally together.

Sam was about to reply when the sharp crack of shots sounded over the nocturnal hum of the swamp. There was a distant shout, another shot and then silence.

"Where are we Sam?" Dean hauled himself to his feet, resting one shaking hand against the cabin wall to steady himself.

"I'm not sure. I was out of it, woke up in the boat."

Dean frowned at him. "You were out? What did they do to you buddy? Are you okay?"

"Dean, I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle." Sam rubbed at his head involuntarily, snatching his hand away with a feeling of guilt when his brother's frown intensified. He climbed back to his feet, ready to pull again against the restraints, but stopped when he heard angry voices approaching.

Dean met his eyes across the cabin, his shoulders straightening imperceptibly.

The voice of the man who'd released Verne was clearly distinguishable. He seemed to be apologising. The voice raised in anger was that belonging to the man in the blue baseball cap. Not all the words were audible through the muffle of the wooden walls, but it seemed clear enough that the immediate release of a second prisoner was the topic of conversation.

Blue Cap's voice was close to the door as he snarled something about "they'll be running short of meat."

Dean looked at him with horror on his face. "What is this crap! Have we fell into The Hills Have Eyes?"

"Verne?" said Sam. "D'you think he got away?"

The door swung open rapidly. Blue Cap stormed inside. The second man followed him; he seemed nervous, running a hand over his mouth as he looked at the brothers.

"Him? He'll be slow." He gestured at Dean.

"No." Blue Cap's tone was sharp. "I told ya already. She drugged him up good an' proper. He'll be no good for a day or two." He turned towards Sam. "Let the big guy go."

Dean looked stricken. "No! Whatever you're gonna do, take me."

Blue Cap sneered at him. "Don't worry y'self. It'll be your turn soon enough."

He turned to the second man. "Get those chains off." He raised his rifle, pointed it at Dean, addressing his next words to Sam. "Any funny business and your friend here, he gets a round in the gut. He'll last long enough for the drug to be outta his system before he dies."

"Fuck you!" Dean's voice was a growl; he was quivering with rage. "Run Sammy, y'hear. This here's a Poughkeepsie time. Just get away from here."

The restraints dropped to the floor with a thud. Sam stared at his brother.

"Go Sam. Just go." Dean's face was set but Sam could read the fear in his eyes, knew it was for his little brother rather than himself.

Sam stepped slowly through the door, breathing deeply and pumping oxygen into his lungs. As the door slammed behind him he dropped to the floor, swinging his long legs and taking Blue Cap behind the knees. He went sprawling as Sam rolled and dived off the board walk. Praying there were no alligators or poisonous snakes in the immediate vicinity, he splashed away through the shallow water, heading rapidly into the darkness and the cover of the surrounding undergrowth.

.

Martin worked his way slowly forwards using just enough light to see his way, turning the spots to low and then off altogether in more open stretches where the moonlight penetrated as far as the water. Gradually he crept closer to the distant lights.

Shots rang out. He hauled to, shaking with fear, dousing his lights immediately. There was an angry shout. Lights danced around for some time and then retreated. He moved the boat slowly onwards, using only the glow of his flashlight that he wrapped in a mosquito net to minimise his chances of being discovered. The reeds gave way to the bulbous trunks of swamp cypress trees, rearing high out of the dark water, their trunks pale in the moonlight. Little ripples caused by the passage of the boat slapped against the trunks. Martin hunched, tense, peering ahead. This was not a time to get snagged on a fallen tree.

After a while the lights retreated a little further, seeming to centre in one place. As he closed in he could make out a yellow glow, perhaps a cabin light? He came to a halt; the channel he'd been following blocked by fallen trunks. Suddenly lights flared again; there was a shout, raised voices and again the sound of shots. The lights kept moving, now heading towards him.

.

Bobby started hollering the minute he heard the sirens. Kept on shouting when he heard the cars pull up. When no-one answered he tucked himself down underneath the metal counter and fired his shotgun at the metal walls, hoping nothing ricocheted and hit him. It would be ironic if Bobby Singer, long time hunter of the supernatural, ended up dying from his own shotgun in a meat locker.

Minutes later he was outside, pointing wordlessly at Jake's corpse.

"What in hell!" The sheriff was purple with stress. "What in hell is goin' on around here!"

Bobby couldn't answer straight away. He was bent double, throwing up his lunch, painfully aware how close he'd come to ordering one of those damned burgers.

.

Martin could see a figure splashing towards him through the swamp. The water was shallow enough in the trees, barely more than three feet in most places, although it held a number of things deadly to a blundering human.

"Here, over here!" He called, when the figure was near enough to identify it as Sam. "Sam. Here, it's Martin."

Sam headed for him gratefully. The lights were closing in. Martin turned his boat, ready to take off back up the channel, grateful it was small enough for such manoeuvres. Sam clambered up over a large fallen trunk and Martin was reaching out, ready to take his hand, when there was the crack of a rifle shot. With a shocked cry, Sam fell off the top of the trunk and into some undergrowth. Another bullet tore a chunk out of the top of the wood and buzzed over Martin's head.

"Sam!"

He saw Sam shake his head, forcing himself further into the brush and shadow as the lights swung over the top of the trunk.

"Hey! Over here you bastards!" Martin stood up, waving his arms. The lights swung towards him and he sat down quickly, opening up the engine and moving off up the channel, praying they would follow and that he wouldn't run aground. He could hear the sound of a powerful boat approaching from his left. He swung desperately into a channel leading to the right, catching a glimpse over his shoulder of two men clambering into the bigger boat. It immediately surged forwards in pursuit.

Sam was on his own.

.

The moment the cabin door closed behind Sam, Dean began to fight frantically against his restraints, ignoring the scraping feeling of skin tearing from his wrist.

His gaze fastened on the abandoned cable ties. Maybe, just maybe. He threw himself in their direction. His hand was well short of its target, so he shuffled around and reached out with one long leg. The tip of his boot just touched the tie. He took a breath, clenched his teeth and launched himself along the floor, snagging the cable tie beneath his boot. The skin peeled off his wrist bringing a flare of pain that made him retch. He swallowed, hard, dragging his boot along the floor until the tie was in reach of his grasping fingers. He snatched it up and started to pick at the lock securing his wrist.

His wrist was free and he was working on his ankle when the shots rang out. He froze, his blood running cold. Splashing and shouting receded into the distance. He's alive, he told himself fiercely, Sammy's alive, or they wouldn't still be moving away.

Mercifully the door wasn't locked, no doubt thanks to Sam's rapid departure. Dean crept through cautiously, just in time to see the third man leap into the boat moored to the dock. It roared away.

Dean hung onto the wall, fighting a wave of nausea. The powerful floodlights of the boat were zigzagging away through the trees. A second later there was the sharp crack of a rifle, the muzzle flash clearly visible. He heard Sam cry out and started wading, splashing heedlessly through the water.

The boat stopped for a moment, then powered off into the distance; it seemed to be pursuing another smaller boat. There was no-one else in sight.

"Sam! Sammy!" No answer. He fought rising panic. Shouted again. Still no answer. He forged on towards the location of the muzzle flash, some instinct pulling him in that direction. As he waded he tore a strip off his shirt and tied it around his bleeding wrist.

"Crap, friggin' crap." He hated this place, hated the fact that his blood was probably sending out a signal to every flesh-eating predator in the swamp.

He was tiring fast, still fighting the powerful drug flowing in his veins. His boots caught and tripped on the unseen roots. The mud sucked at him, making his legs shake and his head swim.

"Sam," he muttered, more to himself than anything. "Keep goin'… find Sammy, get outta this friggin' hole."

Dean blundered on, wondering vaguely if he would pass out and drown before something decided to eat him.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean struggled on, wading through the resistance of the chest deep water, one slow motion step at a time. His right boot landed on something soft and slippery, instead of the expected sucking mud or grasping roots. The slippery something, understandably, was not too happy and it shot off at speed. Dean lost his footing and went down, submerged in the brown water for the second time that night. He came up spluttering and choking and cursing, emerging to the sound of a young girl shrieking.

He caught hold of a creeper and pulled himself upright. The girl in the sundress was standing on the fallen trunk of a large tree. In the gloom of the swamp her transparent figure emitted a pale glow, the tangle of twigs and leaves behind her visible through the pattern of her dress. Dean was almost relieved to see her. Here at least was something he was used to dealing with, something supernatural.

She shrieked again, the unearthly wailing of the dead, pointing down into the water where something large thrashed.

Dean caught a glimpse of a bulbous snout, a flash of a denim covered leg. His heart clenched. He surged forward, dragging a branch free of the tangle of debris around the fallen trunk. He smashed it at the water; there was a sinuous, powerful movement beneath the surface that flicked him aside as though he weighed no more than a floating leaf. He staggered backwards, his legs floating up out of his control. By the time he regained his feet, his own floundering was the only movement in the water.

"Sam! Sam!"

He waded around, groping frantically beneath the surface, lurching through the pattern of moonlight and shadow. There was nothing. No feel of cloth or limbs. Just water and roots. The swamp was eerily silent around him, everything momentarily stilled by the recent presence of the large predator. The ghost watched him for a moment, then faded away.

He was starting to panic, his shouts spiralling out of control. He tripped, slipped off a submerged log and took in a lungful of water. He came up spluttering, with the idea forming in his head that, if Sam was gone, it would be better to just give up and drown. His lungs had other plans and he was coughing and whooping involuntarily for air when he heard a voice coming from the shadows by the fallen trunk.

"Dean? Dean! I'm over here. Calm down!"

Sam waded clumsily into view, his face white and shocked in the moonlight. He grabbed hold of Dean's shoulders, gave him a little shake.

"Dude! Breathe man, just breathe. Calm down."

Dean grasped at his brother's arms, digging his fingers into the material of his shirt and the flesh beneath. He choked, snatching gasps of air as his heart hammered uncontrollably.

"Crap. Dean, calm down. I'm okay! Look at me, I'm fine."

Sam steadied him, rubbing at his upper arms.

"I saw a leg, thought it was you Sammy…"

"No. No." Sam's voice was sad. "I guess it was Verne? It looked like his boots, what I saw of them."

"I heard a shot, you…"

"Just a flesh wound, only nicked my leg. I'm okay. Really. But we need to get out of here."

Dean nodded, gulping. "Yeah. Yeah. Get outta here."

He drew away from Sam's grasp, painfully aware that his brother would be able to feel the shaking of terror and reaction shuddering through his frame. It was embarrassing enough that Sam had just witnessed him floundering around in the water.

He pulled himself together with an effort. "Flesh wound? Sit up on the trunk, lemme see."

Sam hoisted himself up gingerly and put out his leg for his brother to inspect, watching him with a pensive expression. The sight and sound of Dean's raw desperation had been shocking; Sam had a sick feeling he'd just witnessed his brother coming unravelled.

The bullet had torn a strip of flesh out of Sam's thigh. It was bleeding sluggishly, the blood dark in the moonlight. Dean peeled off the ripped remains of his shirt and fixed a makeshift bandage.

.

From his vantage point on top of the fallen trunk, Sam had a good view of the open channel of water. He grabbed his brother's shoulder, pointing out into the channel. Martin's empty boat was drifting slowly past.

Dean was gone in a flurry of limbs, scrambling away over the last few obstacles. The boat slipped slowly sideways in the sluggish current, the moonlight reflecting back off its metal skin as Dean struck out across the deeper water, small splashes marking his passage as he swam.

The current was faster than it looked and Dean was absurdly grateful when his fingers finally fastened on the hard, metal lip of the boat. The events of the last 24 hours, hell the events of the last couple of months, had taken their toll on his stamina.

He hauled himself aboard, landing in a soggy heap in the bottom of the boat, where he allowed himself the luxury of four deep breaths before pushing himself upright. The engine started at the first pull and he angled the boat into the trees. Sam was waiting at the edge of the deep water and flopped ungracefully into the boat, biting back a groan as his thigh connected with a metal thwart.

Dean flicked the lamps on low beam and opened the engine up a little, heading up the channel. He had no idea where they were going but anywhere away from the cabin where they'd been held captive seemed like a good idea.

There was noise of fumbling behind him as Sam went through the contents of the locker, pulling out a First Aid kit, a couple of bottles of water and a small flashlight. He twisted the lid off one of the bottles, drank thirstily and passed the bottle up to his brother.

Dean took a quick swig, swilled his mouth and spat over the side, trying to rid himself of the gritty feel of swamp mud around his teeth. He swallowed a couple of mouthfuls and handed the bottle back to Sam.

"Pour the rest over your wound, dude. Wash some of that muck out."

Sam complied, gripping the small flashlight between his teeth. There was a pouch of antiseptic wash in the First Aid kit and so he sloshed some of that over the gash too, hissing through his teeth at the burn. He slapped on a quick dressing.

The trees on either side were thinning out now, giving way to shrub and the beginnings of the reed beds. Dean risked a glance at his brother, was glad to see he now had a proper dressing showing through the rip in his jeans. He noted the First Aid kit with approval.

"How's the leg?"

"It's okay." It wasn't feeling okay; it was throbbing and burning in time with Sam's pulse. It must have shown on his face because Dean looked at him with sympathy.

"Stings like a bitch, huh?"

Sam snorted, amused despite himself. "Yeah, yeah it does." His grin faded. "Are you okay?"

Dean waved off his concern and gestured at the First Aid kit. "Well-stocked boat. Where d'you think it came from?"

"It's Martin's." Sam's voice was tight. "He was out here, tried to pick me up. He led them away when I got hit; they'd have got me otherwise." He was hoping Martin hadn't paid for that bravery with his life. Dean looked shocked, rapidly reassessing his opinion of the rather nerdy looking wildlife expert.

"You saw the ghost?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. I saw her. Same girl that was hanging around the cabin." Dean felt a rush of relief; she was not a figment of his imagination after all.

"I think I know who she might be." Sam recalled a conversation during the long, easy hours of the wildlife tour.

"Martin told me about a kid, back in the 1940s. Her family were alligator hunters; they lived out here in the swamp. There was a big man-eater of a gator around back then and one day it took her, right from under her brother's nose. Family went a bit crazy after that, especially the brother. Spent his life killing as many gators as he could. He was pretty successful too. Ended up with so much meat the family opened the diner. Then the nature reserve expanded and the hunting here finished. Martin said the family were pissed. The diner still seems to be doing okay though."

Dean flicked a glance back in the general direction of the cabin where they'd been held prisoner. "What's the ghost got to do with those crazies?"

Sam shrugged. "I figure she's related. The brother died years ago but the family stayed around here and kept the diner going. I'm guessing the guys in the cabin are his descendants."

"Yeah, makes sense. She turned up at the hunter's cabin with 'em. They didn't seem to mind her being around."

"Dude, she's the one got me caught! She was stood out in the road; she didn't look like a ghost so I stopped." Sam shrugged again. "Guess she's helping them. Whatever it is they're doing…"

He caught a quick movement of Dean's hand; it was almost a warding off gesture. "What?"

In the narrow beam of the flashlight his brother looked nauseous. "Sam… what're they cooking now the hunting around here has been stopped?"

.

Sam didn't get a chance to reply. The sound of a powerful engine being fired up came from the waterway on their left. Bright floodlights shone through the dividing reeds, dazzling them.

Cursing, Dean swung the boat into the deepest part of the channel and applied full power. They surged forwards. The larger boat smashed through the screen of reeds and powered after them. It was immediately apparent that, even running at full revs, Martin's boat was slower.

There were a few fast turns around the clumps of reeds, the boat heeling over as Dean threw her around the curves in the waterway. The channel began to open up; Sam caught a glimpse of distant lights, recognising the yellow of the lamp set over the nature reserve office. He glanced behind; they were not going to make it.

Seconds later the larger boat was upon them. There was no attempt to get them to stop. Blue Cap simply rammed them at speed, driving the thicker skin of the larger vessel into the side of Martin's boat.

Sam sprawled on his back in the bottom of the boat, grabbing at the boat hook as he landed. Dean was thrown sideways, slamming into the side of the boat with an audible crack and a pained grunt. For a moment, Sam thought his brother would fall overboard, but he rolled back, coming up to his feet with the First Aid box in his hand.

Only Blue Cap and one other man were in the boat. Sam didn't stop to identify him, thrusting the boat hook at the man's chest as forcefully as he could from his prone position. It was a lucky blow and the man, already off balance from the collision, staggered backwards and fell overboard.

Dean met Blue Cap face to face as he swung himself into Martin's boat. The First Aid kit came up in a vicious swing that took Blue Cap under the chin. He flopped backwards, landing across the boats. Dean immediately applied full power and they surged away; Blue Cap fell into the widening gap, grasping onto the side of his own boat.

The engine began to sputter and cough. Dean crouched over it, his arm pressed against his side as he swore softly, coaxing every rev he could out of the failing motor.

Sam tipped the First Aid kit out and began to bail with the box; water was gushing in through a tear in the metal skin. He wondered if the engine would fail first or if they would simply sink.

Behind them there was a ragged roar; spotlights swung in their direction. Blue Cap was in pursuit.


	10. Chapter 10

The larger boat gained on them rapidly. Sam bailed frantically, painfully aware that he was fighting a losing battle against the rush of water.

Blue Cap fired a few rounds in their direction and then stopped abruptly. They guessed he was unable to re-load and steer the boat at the same time.

Dean's tone was bleak. "He's gonna ram us again. I want that boat."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. This one won't make the shore." He hoped it stayed afloat until Blue Cap caught up. The dock was still a long way off, illuminated now by the flashing lights of police vehicles.

"He's got nothing to lose now. Be careful Sammy."

The brothers braced, ready for the impact.

The larger vessel struck them close to where Sam crouched. He threw himself up over the side of the boat and went at Blue Cap with the boat hook, Dean leaping after him.

Blue Cap was fast, deflecting the pole of the boat hook with his forearm and kicking viciously down at the blood stained dressing on Sam's leg. His boot heel ripped the dressing and tore into flesh. Sam howled and went down hard, one hand releasing the pole and gripping involuntarily at his leg as his wound deepened, spurting blood.

Blue Cap ripped the pole from Sam's other hand, but fell backwards as Dean's fist slammed into his face. He rolled away, took a kick from Dean to his back but managed to regain his footing. Years of hunting prey of the flesh and blood type had honed his instincts; he'd identified Dean's weak spot immediately from the way he was moving and he reversed the pole. The end cracked with brutal force into Dean's ribs. Dean dropped without a sound.

Sam drew back his good leg and kicked out with all his strength, hitting Blue Cap in the abdomen. Blue Cap was hurled over the side and sprawled into Martin's boat.

Sam curled up to a sitting position. The dressing was dangling by his knee and he snatched it up, slapped it over the re-opened wound and applied pressure. The boat shuddered beneath him as Dean opened the throttle and aimed it at the flashing lights on shore. Martin's boat and Blue Cap were left behind, bobbing around in their wake.

.

Sam twisted painfully to face his brother. Dean's face was blank, set.

"Dean?" he yelled, over the roar of the engine.

He received a little hand flap in response; Dean mouthed "Winded" at him. He motioned at Sam's thigh, frowning.

"It's okay!" Sam bellowed, turning back to face forwards. The shore was suddenly much closer, Bobby's figure easily distinguishable on the dock. Dean eased the revs down and Sam stood up carefully, balancing gingerly on his bad leg.

A floodlight swept in their direction and settled on the boat. Sam waved his arms in what he hoped was a non-threatening way. At this point in the game it would be a real shame if someone decided to shoot first and ask questions later.

.

Dean shielded his eyes, trying to peer through the brilliant white light. Everything behind it was in dark shadow, but Bobby's voice was distinguishable. He cut the engine revs further to a gentle burble.

"Dean! Sam! Over here!" Clearly Bobby's bellow. The floodlight obligingly shifted away from the boat and pointed down at the dock. Dean aimed the boat towards the landing and drifted in to bump gently against the side.

He sat for a moment longer, pretending to be fiddling with the engine. He sucked in a cautious, shallow breath; his ribs were on fire. Out of the corner of his eye he could see eager hands assisting Sam ashore, a police officer descending on him.

"Dean? You okay there son?" It was Bobby. Dean nodded, gave him a tight grin and got up and out of the boat slowly, careful not to jar his ribs and even more careful not to show his discomfort.

"Hell of a night," he grunted. "Look after Sam; he's been shot in the leg."

"I've gotcha." Bobby took hold of his elbow. Dean ground his teeth as the white hot fire in his ribs flared. He waved Bobby away impatiently.

"I'm fine. See to Sam."

Bobby didn't look convinced. "Balls, you ain't fine. Medics are about five minutes out. I'll make sure they see to y'brother. Now sit y'self down over there y'hear. I'll go check on Sam."

Dean allowed himself to be shepherded over to the bench by the nature reserve office. A kindly looking lady dropped a blanket around his shoulders as he sat. Despite the humidity of the night, he'd been soaking wet for hours and the warmth and soft weight of the blanket was both reassuring and comforting. He declined a mug of coffee and tried to relax; he still couldn't get his breath properly.

.

Shot in the leg or not, Sam Winchester was not one to lose his capacity for speech and it didn't take him many minutes to brief the sheriff on the killers in the swamp and give him an amended version of events since Jake and Verne had arrived in the area. With Bobby there to fill in the gaps and visible evidence in the cold store, the sheriff was not inclined to disbelieve him.

By the time he'd finished, several more police cars and the first responder paramedics had arrived. Sam was whisked onto a stretcher for some triage and emergency treatment as the police set off in several powerful boats owned and steered by locals. The apprehension of Blue Cap and any remaining associates and the hopeful recovery of Martin were now priorities.

.

"Sure." Bobby nodded. "We'll be back at the hunting cabin for a few days yet. We'll get Sam here fixed up in the hospital and be goin' back there for our gear. I'll make sure and check in with ya before we leave the area." He shook the sheriff's hand, agreed that it was a "bad business".

"I'll follow the ambulance. Gonna take that idjit along too and get him checked out." He gestured at Dean, who had now shed his blanket and was talking to Sam by the ambulance. "Y'can get a statement from him later."

He held the Impala keys up, waved at Dean. "I'll get the car," he hollered, thinking it might be better if he moved it as close to the end of the walkway as the parking area allowed. Dean wasn't looking his best. In fact he looked kind of pasty. Bobby suspected he was hiding something. "Silly son of a bitch," he muttered, heading for the Impala. He'd make sure the nursing staff had a look at him as soon as they arrived at the hospital.

By the time he was in the driver's seat, Sam had been loaded into the ambulance. The doors closed and it began to reverse up the narrow slip road alongside the walkway, passing Dean, who was now making his way slowly towards the parking area.

To Bobby's amazement, as he passed the end of the slip road the Impala's engine cut out. No warning, no splutter; she just stopped. She came to a halt across the end of the slip road, effectively blocking the ambulance.

"What the hell!" Bobby pumped the gas, turned the key. Nothing. The ambulance stopped, the driver staring at him out of the window.

"Bobby! What've you done to her man!" Dean sounded aggravated and oddly breathless as he arrived in a rush. He glowered at Bobby, reaching out to put a hand on the Impala's hood but making no attempt to open it.

"You jump in. I'll give her a push." Bobby opened the door.

Dean was staring at him as though he desperately wanted to say something, but there was nothing coming out past the harsh pants for breath that Bobby could hear even inside the Impala. He stepped out quickly, taking hold of Dean's shoulders.

"Y'okay there son?"

"Nuh… Can't… get m'breath." A bright bubble of blood appeared at the corner of Dean's mouth. Even in the artificial light his lips were turning blue.

"Balls!" Bobby swung his head to the ambulance. "Help, I need some help here!"

Dean toppled forwards, his weight suddenly against Bobby as his head lolled against the side of the older hunter's neck. Bobby slid down the side of the Impala, gently lowering him to the floor as the paramedics dropped into a crouch beside them.


	11. Chapter 11

Bobby's voice drifted in through the open door. "Yeah, yeah. I will. Thanks for all your help doc. Yeah, we'll all be right glad to get home I reckon."

Dean fidgeted, wishing he could escape, but thinking it unlikely he would manage to get through the door before Sam caught him. He risked a glance at his brother.

Sam was a tornado waiting to happen. Over the years Dean had come to realise that the bitch face varied in intensity. It was currently hovering around 98%. The remaining 2% was pure rage.

Dean swallowed nervously, returning his gaze to the sheet.

"Crap," he thought. Sam had restrained himself until now, only a certain hardness in his eyes and the tight lines around his mouth giving indications of the storm to come.

Bobby stuck his head back into the room.

"Looks like you'll be outta here tomorrow." He paused, taking in Sam's expression and Dean's twitching fingers. "Er, I'll give you boys a minute. I'll be in the car when you're finished up there Sam."

He nodded at Dean, ignored his imploring expression and made his escape.

"Finished up… awesome." Dean decided to go with bravado and put on a cocky smile. "Outta here tomorrow, Sammy! That's good news, right?"

Sam glared at him. "You'll be out of here when the doctor says you can leave. And it's Sam."

Dean's smile drooped. The period of time immediately after his collapse by the Impala was a whirlwind blur. Twisted by the intensity of the pain and the struggle to drag any air at all into his chest, he'd been swept along, helpless. He vaguely remembered the fear on Sam's face, the relief when the chest tube went in and the smothering darkness when the pain relief took hold. The rest remained a confused muddle.

Over the next few days his lung had gradually re-inflated, the tear mercifully small. If that was a minor lung puncture, he thought, he really didn't want to experience a major one. It was now officially confirmed that he was on the mend, discharge imminent. Okay, so rest and recuperation were on the horizon for some time to come, but he was out of danger.

Sam had held his tongue throughout the treatment and early stages of recovery. His tortured expression gradually gave way to relief, then slowly built up to the clenched jaw of today. Dean could see his brother clearly had something on his mind and it looked as though he was about to share.

Dean's palms began to sweat. "You okay there dude?"

Sam sat back slowly in the too small plastic chair. He folded his arms. "No, Dean. I am not alright. None of this is alright."

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Sam stared at him. "Nothing to say? No smart ass remark? Not FINE today then? FINE with a PUNCTURED LUNG DEAN!"

He drew in a deep breath; Dean could hear his teeth grinding. It wasn't like his little brother to blow up. Usually it was the older Winchester with the short fuse. Sam had a temper; he'd seen it often enough when he was having one of his pre-Stanford arguments with John. But losing his temper with Dean? Not so much. Sam's protests were normally more stubborn than fiery, more along the lines of his departure en route to the Burkitsville job.

"I, er, I didn't know it was punctured…" Even Dean could hear the weakness of the argument. He forged on regardless. "Thought I was just winded, a cracked rib mebbe."

"Right." Sam snorted. "Of course you did. Because you've never had a broken rib before, right? That isn't something that happens to you all the damn time."

"It wasn't that bad man, not until I started walking."

"No. Just stop! I've had it with this bullshit." Sam shot to his feet, voice deepening.

"First, first you intercept MY message, from one of MY friends. You take a job involving Jess, without telling me, without even running it by me! You take off, without a word, no fucking explanation at all Dean! Leaving me to run around all over the place trying to find out what the hell has happened to my brother, who is MISSING! I thought you'd been taken! I thought you were DEAD! How could you do that!"

"Sam, it wasn't like that!"

Sam ignored him; he spun on his heel, began to pace, finger jabbing in Dean's direction to emphasise each point.

"And what happens, when you take this job all by yourself. No-one watching your back, that's what happens! You end up with a head injury, memory loss. And do you let anyone know your head is getting worse? Of course you don't. So next thing you're DEAD, from a fucking bleed to the brain. And if it wasn't for Jess, you'd still be fucking dead!"

"Sammy, lay off man! I was tryin' to look out for you, I didn't want you to have to deal…"

Sam cut him off. "Deal! I had to deal with all of it. Every time you pull this shit I have to deal with it."

He flopped back into the chair, dragged something out of his pocket and threw it at his brother.

Dean's heart sank. It was the 'after effects of head injury' leaflet. He stared at it as thought it might bite him.

"So, explain this to me. Why didn't you tell me you were still having problems? You kept it to yourself. Again. Got yourself here on this hunt. What lame ass excuse do you have for that!"

Dean's jaw clenched. "I don't need an excuse. It wasn't anything I couldn't handle."

Sam huffed. "Right."

Icy green eyes met angry hazel ones. Dean snatched up the leaflet and waved it at Sam. "This I could handle. My ribs… didn't seem all that important when my little brother had a goddamned gunshot wound to the leg!"

"A flesh wound, or a punctured lung! Good to see you've got your priorities right!"

"My priority is making sure you're okay!" Dean spoke forcefully, anger creeping into his tone. "That's my job!" His breath caught, lungs still unhappy with him taking such a deep breath; he coughed, winced, cursing under his breath at the implied weakness.

Sam rose from the chair, backed away towards the door, a glint of tears in his eyes. He pointed a shaking finger at his brother.

"If you ever, EVER, pull a stunt like that again I am gonna dump your ass. I'd be safer hunting by myself than having to keep one eye on you all the goddamn time!"

He sent a final glare in Dean's direction and slammed the door behind him.

Dean lay back, massaging his ribs gingerly. Twelve days of treatment and breathing exercises and he could breathe properly again. The broken ribs would take a lot longer to heal. When was he ever going to be okay?

He stared at the door for a few seconds. His hands were shaking, the leaflet wavering about in the corner of his vision. After a while he tore it up into small pieces and dropped it into the little trash can.

.

Sam curled in an angry huddle against the passenger door. Bobby decided to test the water.

"Said your piece then? It help any?"

Sam grimaced. "I said plenty."

The water was clearly still boiling. Bobby tried to cool it down some.

"It's Dean we're talkin' about here. He's not tryin' to piss ya off. It's just the way he is."

"No, it's not." Sam sounded depressed. "This is Dad's doing, _look after Sammy_. He needs to stop. I can't do this anymore. It's like he's on a suicide mission. Why can't he understand he matters too?"

"He's an idjit." Bobby cast a quick glance at the mass of frustration and misery next to him. "I'll have a word with him tomorrow, okay?"

Sam shrugged, trying hard to hold onto his anger, but finding it almost impossible when all he could see in his mind's eye was the hurt on Dean's face as he'd slammed the door.

.

"So, she's all fixed up then?"

"Yeah." Bobby slammed the Impala's hood. "Loose lead. Can't see nothing else."

"Loose lead?" Sam looked a little awkward as he ventured the next comment. "You don't think the break down was kind of well timed?"

"What? No! She's getting' old Sam. That's the kinda thing happens when y'have to drive 'em fast on dirt tracks."

Behind the bulk of the Impala, Sam surreptitiously patted her metal side, thanking her silently, just in case. He was painfully aware that if the Impala had not broken down at the precise moment she did, the ambulance would have left with just him on board and Dean may well have died.

"Hey Princess! I ain't got all day to sit around while you're dreaming about y'next hair treatment." Bobby's voice broke into his thoughts. "Let's go get that idjit of a brother of yours. First I want to call at the diner, I've got an idea what's holdin' the little girl's spirit here. There was this display case on the wall. If it's what I think it is, it's gonna need a little salt'n'burning."

"Okay. I want to call in on Martin too, check he's okay."

"Sheriff said he was fine, bit shook up what with being took captive and all."

"I know." Sam was chewing on his lip. "I guess I'm feeling bad we didn't go back for him ourselves."

Bobby gave him an incredulous look. "Y'had no idea where he was! That swamp is a big place. You'd took a bullet to the leg. Don't go beatin' y'self up about that."

Whatever Bobby said, Sam knew he'd always feel bad that they hadn't found Martin themselves. With no training and fully aware that he was getting himself into a bad situation, the man had put his life on the line for two strangers. In Sam's eyes that made him a hero. He wanted to take the time to thank the man properly.

.

The little ghost went quietly enough in the end. The flames took hold of the display case and its simple contents of a faded photograph and a red ribbon, with just a single hair still caught in the bow. Her brother had hung it in the diner when it first opened and there it had stayed, a fond gesture in memory of a little girl whose tragic death had led to such terrible things. Sparks appeared around her pale face, her flowered sundress flared briefly and the spirit was gone.

Bobby waited until there were just ashes left in a little pile in the sunny clearing. It was a nice enough spot, he decided, next to the swamp with its carpet of white lilies. No-one with any sense would accuse him to his face of being sentimental, but what did it matter to anyone else where he burnt the display case. She'd just been a little kid after all, a victim of bad luck as much as anyone else.

.

The salt'n'burn took a little longer than Bobby had anticipated. By the time he reached the hospital Dean had been released and was waiting outside.

It was obvious from Sam's comments that the boys had exchanged sharp words. The expression on Dean's face, when he realised Sam wasn't in the Impala, made him wonder just how sharp they'd been. It seemed he might need to help both of 'his boys' do some healing.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why Dean's hospital treatment doesn't take up many lines… a pal and I both write fan fiction. We've found over the last few months that when we're messaging each other we often have the same thought at the same time; in fact it happens so often it's become a bit of a joke! So it happened that we were both working on our own independent stories, neither knowing what direction the other was going in with their story, only to find we've both given Dean a punctured lung (poor, poor Dean, we are so evil!) As mine had already led into the lung puncture in my last chapter it was too late to change the symptoms. My pal has gone down the medical treatment route with her tale, so I've gone off on a tangent with some brotherly angst instead, because after all poor Dean shouldn't have to go through all that treatment twice; he does hate hospitals!
> 
> One more chapter to follow... 'Lost' and 'Found' will then be complete!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter...

Bobby waited until Dean had settled himself carefully into the passenger side of the Impala. His expression was tight with more than the physical discomfort of his healing ribs. Bobby decided to put him out of his misery.

"Y'brother went to see Martin."

Dean's shoulders sagged a little, something flickering briefly on his face before being shut away. He turned a pale face to Bobby.

"He's okay… Martin?"

"He's fine. Got some balls on him for a little guy."

"Yeah." Dean nodded; he seemed stuck for anything further to say. Bobby was starting to think it might be a long ride back to the cabin.

"The Impala's fixed," he said unnecessarily.

"Yeah. Thanks man."

Okay, thought Bobby. Might as well just tackle it head on. "You and Sam got pissy with each other yesterday?"

"Sam got pissy." The delivery was flat, emotionless.

Not good, Bobby decided. Not good at all. He ploughed on, wondering why people ever had kids, because sometimes dealing with these two was like having two sulking rugrats to sort out.

"He's been kinda worried about ya y'know?"

Dean dropped his chin, looking in the direction of his own knees.

Bobby cleared his throat, continuing gruffly. "You've had a bad few months there kiddo. Sam has had a bad few months worryin' hisself silly about you."

Dean had switched to staring at him now, intent on his words.

"When someone gets scared, real scared… sometimes they get angry y'know. Not at the time, but later, when the danger is gone. It's just natural, don't mean diddly squat."

Damn it, he wished the man would at least blink, it was unnerving with those big green eyes fixed on you like that. Bobby elaborated desperately. "Sometimes they say stuff they don't really mean."

"Okay." Dean turned his eyes back to the passing scenery.

Okay! Was that all he had to say! Bobby huffed a bit and concentrated on his driving for a while. If those two princesses didn't sort themselves out he was gonna be knocking some heads together, broken ribs and bullet wound or not.

He spent the rest of the journey bringing Dean up to date. Blue Cap and his crew had been taken into custody, accused of a series of murders that had been taking place since the family ran out of gator meat and started hunting visitors and strangers instead.

Verne's body had not been recovered, although Martin would be keeping a look out for remains on his regular forays into the swamp. Jake's body was in the morgue, arrangements already in hand for him to be exhumed after his burial and given a hunter's funeral at the earliest possible opportunity.

A final end had been tied up when it emerged that Martin being informed that a local had been taken was a hoax, aimed at getting at least one of the hunters away from the cabin, leaving the others as easier pickings. A bonus would have been tempting the excessively curious Martin out into the swamp, basically for harvesting, for want of a better word.

It had been a weird hunt within a hunt and, all things considered, Bobby was relieved it was over.

.

Sam slid into the back seat; he raised a hand in farewell to Martin, who was lounging in the doorway of the nature reserve office.

"Law has it all under control here now," Bobby noted as they drove off. "If you're good to go…" He raised an eyebrow at Dean.

"Yeah. I'm gonna be glad to see the back of this place." Dean glared at the swamp, sounding decisive.

"You're up to travelling?" Sam asked quietly.

"I'm fine."

"We'll do it in nice, easy stages. Try not to aggravate y'ribs too much." There was no response. Bobby sighed, seriously considering just dumping his car so he could ride along in the Impala. No, he thought after a moment, best leave 'em to thrash it out, see how things are by the time they get back up to South Dakota.

.

They packed up and headed north with the minimum of essential conversation.

The first hour passed in an uneasy vacuum, only the bump of the Impala's tyres over the irregularities in the road and the growl of her engine filling the silence.

Eventually Dean reached out for the box of cassette tapes, mindful not to jar his ribs.

Sam coughed awkwardly, not wanting to miss what might be his only chance to speak for some time, or at least to speak without bellowing over music.

"Umm, Dean?"

His brother glanced quickly at him and away, his fingers flicking through the tapes.

"I didn't mean that… what I said in the hospital."

The scramble of Dean's fingers stilled abruptly. He looked up, his jaw tight. "It's okay Sammy. I get it. You're pissed."

Sam dragged his fingers through his hair, earning himself a sharp look as the Impala swerved slightly. "No!" Frustration colored his tone. "I'm not mad. I'm scared."

That captured his brother's full attention.

"I'm scared that next time… and there will be a next time… it will be too late by the time I find out something is wrong." Sam sent a silent plea, willing his brother to understand. "I don't want you to put _me_ first all the time. _You_ matter too."

Dean huffed.

"I mean it Dean. If we're going to carry on hunting together…" Sam tightened his grip on the wheel, studiously ignoring his brother's flinch. "…you stop trying to protect me from everything, let me take my fair share of the risk. And if there's something wrong with you, you tell me." His voice turned softer, pleading. "Please Dean?"

Dean flicked a cassette free of its case, held it poised at the entrance to the cassette player. "I'll try, okay."

His finger stabbed at the tape and the opening bars of ACDC's 'Hell's Bells' filled Baby's interior.

Sam felt the beginnings of disappointment curdle in his gut, but then Dean reached out, patted him twice on the leg and turned to stare out of the window. "Okay," his brother repeated, almost to himself.

After a few minutes he fished in the glovebox and pulled out a bag of M&Ms, a health bar and a can of vegetable juice. Sam hadn't the slightest clue where he could've found the juice in their current remote location.

Dean passed the health bar and juice over, meeting Sam's eyes and giving him a little grin and an eyebrow waggle.

"You can't go hunting without me," he said. "Who's gonna drive when I've busted my ribs. Who's gonna find that weird ass shit you drink, in the middle of nowhere. And y'know you'd miss my awesome music choice."

That, Sam figured, was probably the nearest thing to agreement he was going to get.

Dean was staring at him, almost confrontational. "Bitch," he said, just the slightest hint of a question in the tone.

"Jerk," Sam confirmed quietly, taking the juice, letting his lips curve into a smile and finding it was no effort at all.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> Well that's it!  
> Love to know what you think.   
> Comments and kudos always appreciated! 
> 
> It's been a long ride if you've stayed with me right through' Lost'' and then 'Found'.  
> Thank you all so much for reading and for your comments and kudos. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated!  
> Love to hear from you!
> 
> Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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